Unlovable...

There are moments in life where you can almost feel heaven and earth meet.

Not because everything is perfect—

but because you know you didn’t get here on your own.

And your heart fills with a deep, overwhelming gratitude for everything the Lord has done.

My Burn Survivor Anniversary is that kind of moment for me.

It’s a line in the sand that says: the fire did not take me out.

But if I’m honest—it tried to take more than just my body.

It tried to take my identity.

And for a long time… it did.

It tried to rewrite how I saw myself.

And if I could, I would sit with my younger self and tell her she didn’t have to believe those lies.

It tried to convince me that I would always be marked—

not just physically, but relationally.

It tried to take my independence.

There were voices—medical, situational, even casual—that said I might never fully do things on my own again.

That I might not walk the same.

That I might not talk the same.

That life would always be limited… smaller somehow.

And when you hear those things enough, they don’t just sound like possibilities—

they start to feel like promises.

That I would always be *“the one who went through something.”*

The one people didn’t quite know how to approach.

The one who would be loved—but at a distance.

The one who was “too much”… or worse—“hard to love.”

And the hardest part?

Those lies didn’t come loudly.

They came quietly. Subtly. Over time.

They came through comments—some careless, some cruel—

from people who knew me and from strangers who didn’t.

They came through normal life hardships that the enemy twisted into something deeper—making everything feel like proof that I was unlovable, incapable, or too broken to live fully.

They showed up in hesitation.

In overthinking every interaction.

In wondering if I was too different to be fully known.

They showed up when friendships ended, and I believed it was because of me.

When a store attendant asked me to leave because “whatever I had might get on the clothes.”

When a nail tech pulled away from my hand.

When someone I liked touched my arm… and later sent a message calling my scars “disgusting.”

And somewhere along the way, I didn’t just hear those lies—

I agreed with them.

I let them define me.

I built walls to protect myself, thinking distance would hurt less than rejection.

But God.

God does not leave His people in lies.

This past weekend at the young adult retreat, my friend Johanna prayed over me.

She spoke directly to that lie—that I was unlovable—and began tearing down walls I didn’t even realize were still standing.

I couldn’t stop crying.

Because it wasn’t just about physical healing anymore—

it was about the deeper healing my heart has been crying out for.

And what I didn’t expect…

was that God would continue that healing on a dance floor.

I missed part of a powerful night of worship and prayer—

but I encountered the Lord at a swing dance in a way I never saw coming.

Because God doesn’t just heal wounds—

He exposes what tried to grow in the shadows of them.

And this weekend… He did exactly that.

On a dance floor filled with music, laughter, and a kind of joy that felt like a glimpse of eternity, I realized something that stopped me in my tracks:

I wasn’t on the outside looking in.

I wasn’t the “different one.”

I wasn’t being handled carefully or loved cautiously.

I wasn’t being rejected because of my story.

I was fully—freely—joyfully part of something.

Spinning. Laughing. Living.

Doing things I was once told might not be possible the same way again.

Moving freely. Dancing boldly. Living independently.

Surrounded by people who have never walked through what I’ve walked through—

and yet have chosen, again and again, to walk with me.

New friends. Old friends. Acquaintances. Even strangers.

Some sought me out to talk.

Others naturally fell into conversation.

People asked me to dance without hesitation—taking my hand, holding my scarred arm—without a second thought, without discomfort, without disgust.

And in that moment—

Every lie shattered.

They fell faster than I could even try to hold onto them.

And I felt the Lord whisper deep in my spirit:

*“See? Your scars never disqualified you from connection.

They became the place I would reveal My faithfulness.

You just couldn’t see it yet.”*

Because here’s the truth I am finally learning to live in:

My scars are not barriers.

They are evidence.

Evidence that what should have destroyed me didn’t.

Evidence that God was present in places I thought I was alone.

Evidence that healing is not just possible—it is happening.

Evidence that I am walking, speaking, dancing, and living in ways once questioned.

And even more than that—

They have become an invitation.

An invitation for others to step into a deeper kind of love.

A love not based on shared experience, but on chosen presence.

A love that doesn’t require full understanding to show up fully.

A love that reflects something greater than this world knows how to give.

To my friends—my church family:

You didn’t have to step into this with me.

You didn’t have to choose closeness over comfort.

You didn’t have to lean into something you didn’t fully understand.

But you did.

And in doing that, you didn’t just support me—

You helped break a lie I didn’t even realize I was still carrying.

The lie that said I would always be set apart in a way that created distance.

Instead, you showed me something holy:

That I can be set apart and still deeply connected.

That I can carry a heavy story and still experience light, joy-filled friendship.

That I can be known in parts and still fully loved as a whole.

And isn’t that the heart of Jesus?

He steps into what He didn’t have to.

He draws near when distance would be easier.

He chooses connection—at the highest cost.

So this anniversary, I stand in a place I never thought I would reach:

Not just surviving.

Not just healing.

But belonging.

And I need to say this—because someone needs to hear it:

What tried to break you will not get the final word.

What tried to define you does not get to name you.

What tried to limit you does not get to hold you back.

What tried to isolate you will not keep you alone.

Because God is in the business of redemption.

He takes fires and turns them into testimonies.

He takes wounds and turns them into worship.

He takes the places you thought would always ache—

and fills them with people, purpose, and His presence.

So yes—this is my Burn Survivor Anniversary month.

But more than that—

It is a declaration.

That I am still here.

That I am still becoming.

That I am still held.

And by the grace of God—

I am not just someone who walked through fire.

I am someone who came out carrying light.

So I will keep showing up.

I will keep loving deeply.

I will keep living freely.

I will keep dancing—

Not because the fire wasn’t real…

But because it no longer has power over me.